Shall I write of soft soothing sentiments  or fomenting vitriol?

Both inundate me in the every-now mobius-ly and simultaneously.

It almost seems like a fair feminine spirit upon a sunny path is calling out to me to come play and romp about in happy-go-lucky dalliance.  While at the same time, along the shadowy back track, a dark-armored machismo spirit warns me, of not only dangers ahead, but dangers at hand, and begs for my warrior wariness.

As if an omniscient observer perfectly balanced, I attempt to trace the mobius flow wondering wherefrom and whereto?  From what beginning and unto what end?

But my anima and animus both grow impatient and  are equally unassuaged by my non-deliberative non-committal non-decision.

Oh damn the both of them.  I shall simply revel in the transition of seasons underway.   Grabbing moments sunning warmly while I still can.  And running amidst the gusts of cool winds about to rip leaves from limbs.